


waking up

by dilkirani



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Post-Framework, Pregnancy, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilkirani/pseuds/dilkirani
Summary: Requested on Tumblr: "Could you write a fic where they're still in the framework and Simmons is captured, and she tells evil!fitz she's pregnant, when he goes to torture her or Aida is going to torture her and that's how he remembers." This varies from the prompt because I couldn't quite bring myself to write her as pregnant in the framework, especially considering the recent ep.





	waking up

**Author's Note:**

> <3 <3 to itsavolcano for her brilliant suggestions and for the beta!

She sits in the cell, defiant. Like Skye—or Daisy, he supposes—she hasn’t changed her story and she hasn’t flinched from the punishment. Her attitude towards him changes, though. Sometimes she seems truly heartbroken, eyes shimmering with tears she doesn’t even attempt to stop. Sometimes she is angry—at him, at herself, at the world. Sometimes she loses herself and begs, although not for her freedom. For him to remember her, of all things.

The thing is, he does remember her, in a way. Fragments of another life push through whenever he’s in the same room with her, and it inevitably frightens him. Ophelia had warned of fabricated memories implanted from the other world, and prior to this they had all felt false. Hollow, sepia-tinged, like someone has inserted pieces of another life into his brain but not bothered to fill them out with any real detail or emotion. He sees himself doing things he’s never done, but he can’t feel any of it and that’s how he knows Ophelia is speaking the truth.

But the longer he spends with Jemma, the more these memories take root and refuse to be shaken. He finds that nothing in his life has scared him this much, because if she’s telling the truth (and she’s _not_ , she can’t be), then he is losing control over the narrative. And nothing is guaranteed to destroy a life faster than losing control.

He knows if Ophelia were not bedridden, she would demand he stop visiting Jemma. He’s perfected the Looking Glass; there’s no need to bother with one subversive, even if she is the most dangerous subversive they’ve ever encountered.

But Ophelia is not here, and his father is not here, and some part of him needs to puzzle this woman apart before he can allow himself to escape.

“I know that you’re not my Fitz,” she says when he has come back one evening. He has a glass of water in his hand which he offers to her without thinking. He immediately hates himself for the sentiment. He should knock it out of her hand. He should. He will, later, when the jumbled noise in his head dissipates.

“I know that you’re not my Fitz,” she repeats, after greedily gulping the entire glass in one go. “But I can’t help loving you anyway.”

She says this oddly, as if speaking a truth but expecting nothing in return. It’s different, he thinks, from how Ophelia expresses her love, and he tightens his expression in response to the traitorous thought.

“I always thought you would come back to me, no matter what.”

 _Come back to me_. That is why he hates her and yet is drawn to her—these mind games she somehow plays, these loaded phrases that should mean nothing yet pull at his heart in the strangest way.

His visits lately have been spent just like this—him sitting in a chair while she sags against the back wall. He doesn’t touch her; he hardly even speaks. She says whatever comes to her mind and he tries not to let the effect her words have show on his face.

Today, she stands up suddenly and he immediately stands as well. He should stop her. He should tell her to sit back down, but for some reason he can’t.

“I know you’re not him,” she says, tears hanging on her lashes, “and so I didn’t want to tell you this. It’s not for you to know when he doesn’t. But I need your help, Fitz, _please_.” Her hand drifts down until it rests against her flat stomach and she shudders through a sob.

“It’s nothing here. I’m just an avatar, and AIDA wouldn’t have known anyway. But in the real world, in _our world_ , we’re going to have a baby. And if something happens to us, Fitz will never forgive himself.”

He doesn’t move for a moment. He wants to scoff. He wants to walk out of the room and leave her here forever. But he doesn’t—he _can’t_. She walks forward until she’s centimeters from him, and she doesn’t look afraid at all.

“I—” he starts, but his throat is dry and the words catch and crumble. She smiles at him sadly, and there’s something so _familiar_ about it all. Was there a plane once? Another leap of faith?

“… _Jemma_?” he asks, and he’s not fully aware of what he’s saying, just that something in her eyes pushes against his heart in a way he’s never felt before.

She smiles again, a real smile this time, and steps even closer. His entire body stills and his lungs struggle for air. He thinks she might kiss him and suddenly every one of his cells remembers the press of her lips against his and he’s never wanted anything more badly in his life.

He closes his eyes and there’s a buzzing of electricity in the room. He can feel it—he’s right on the precipice of the only revelation that will ever matter. Her lips brush his and he wants to cry, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. And then her hands are around his neck and when he opens his eyes there’s nothing but hatred in her returning glare.

He should be able to fight her; she’s so weak and he’s so strong, but he can’t. He grabs at her hands, but her grip is a vice and he can’t get traction. Is he drowning? Has he already drowned?

“Jemma,” he gasps. Her fingers beneath his are ice cold and he can’t help the shiver that reverberates through him. “Jemma, _please_.”

“Did you really think I’d trust you?” she laughs, and there’s something so dark behind her eyes he finds he doesn’t recognize her at all. “Did you really think I’d trust you with a baby? With _my_ child? I know exactly what kind of father you would be, _Doctor_ , and I’d rather _die_ than have you in our lives.”

“No,” he pleads, shaking his head against the sudden onslaught of memories. “No, Jemma, please, this isn’t me. This isn’t me. I’ll protect you. I can save you, please. Jemma, don’t—”

She pushes him, hard, until his back hits the wall, and then she squeezes so tightly he can’t speak at all.

“It’s too late,” she hisses. “I know your heart now.”

Everything goes fuzzy, black blurring at the edge of his vision. He’s about to pass out, and right before he does he hears her laughing, or crying. “Fitz, Fitz, Fitz,” she is saying, and he doesn’t know whether it’s a taunt or a prayer.

++

He comes to with a gasp, drenched in sweat and choking on his inhalations. Jemma wraps her arms around him in a sob, cradling him gently and placing open-mouthed kisses to his face.

“Fitz, Fitz,” she is saying in between kisses, “it’s just a dream. Fitz, please wake up. It’s just a dream.”

He jerks back from her and buries his head in his hands. He can still feel the pressure of her fingers around his neck and despite his dream-pleas, he thinks he deserves it.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, even though she can’t know what he’s apologizing for.

“What was it about this time?” she asks. He looks up at her and he doesn’t have to say anything; he can tell by the devastation on her face that she knows. They have shared a bed for years, and by now they’ve come to recognize that certain traumas have certain looks. He knows the evidence of a Framework-related nightmare is all over his face.

She sits up carefully, breathing through the exertion of maneuvering while this heavily pregnant.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She leans against his shoulder and the reality of her obvious love and trust eases some of the tightness in his chest.

“No…” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, but not just yet.” He reaches a hand towards her rounded stomach hesitantly, as if he hasn’t done this a thousand times. As if she’s ever reacted with anything but a smile.

Sitting here in the stillness, hip-to-hip with his wife and feeling their child somersault, he breathes carefully and tries to ignore the images his brain has chosen to force onto him. He and Jemma had made the choice to have a child; they had talked about the possibility excitedly, they had cried when she found out she was pregnant. He is not the Doctor, and Jemma doesn’t think so, or she never would have agreed to this. Still, he feels slightly queasy. He remembers her words in his dream, and he also remembers knowing he deserved them.

“I know sometimes it’s overwhelming and maybe you won’t believe me right now,” Jemma whispers, placing a hand on top of his, “but I have never once regretted befriending you or marrying you or choosing to raise a child with you. Motherhood is a bit terrifying to me…there are all these variables I can’t control. And as much as I want to be a mother, I also know without a doubt that I would never do this without you.”

Fitz smiles and rests his head on top of hers. “You could, though,” he says. “You’ll be the most amazing mother.”

Jemma shrugs lightly. “I don’t know. Maybe I could, but I wouldn’t want to. I mean it, Fitz. I could never imagine my life without you, even when I was sixteen years old and didn’t realize everything that could mean. I certainly can’t imagine doing _this_ without you.”

Fitz sighs, not saying anything for a moment. Jemma squirms a bit and he places a kiss to her temple. “Your back?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “Sometimes I’m quite ready for this part to be over with.”

He laughs and draws his knees up, and Jemma moves to settle between his legs. She leans forward and he gently massages up and down her spine, carefully working through the built-up tension. His fingers press against her back methodically, guided by her soft sighs.

“There’s so much I wish I could forget,” he whispers, feeling braver now that he can’t meet her eyes. “There’s so much I wish I hadn’t done.”

Jemma wraps a hand around his ankle and squeezes lightly. It’s funny, he thinks, how all these years later her touch is still the most grounding thing in the universe.

“Me too,” she answers, and he unconsciously pulls up the Venn diagram of their traumas, the places where they overlap and the wide expanses where they’ve suffered alone.

“I worry about our baby,” he confesses. “Other parents worry about their children being sick or bullied or only getting one Ph.D., but we know there’s so much worse. I worry that we were selfish to want this.”

Jemma sighs, leaning back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her like a blanket. “I know, but other parents haven’t had the practice we’ve had. If anyone can protect this child, it’s us.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asks. He palms her stomach and wonders if their baby can sense how much safer she’ll be if she just stays there forever.

“I don’t know, I think so,” Jemma replies. He can tell by the way her words are starting to slur that she’s nearing sleep again. “Maybe it was selfish, but I think we deserve this. We deserve to be happy, Fitz. And despite everything, I’m so happy with you. No one will love her more than us, and I hope that’s enough.”

He nods and rests his cheek to the crown of her head. Already he can feel the slight twitching as she settles into sleep and he smiles. Somehow, she is comfortable in this position and he feels infinitely grateful that he can do this for her.

He doesn’t sleep, not really, and his legs eventually go numb, but he’s holding the whole universe in his arms and his heart can barely contain the fullness of it. He remembers his dream, already fraying at the edges, closes his eyes, and lets it go.


End file.
